The Deliverer of Our Souls
by evalia godot
Summary: Let the priest who dares to make known the sins of his penitent be desposed." A Sunday with Mello.
1. Mary, Full of Grace

_Mary full of grace,_

_the Lord is with thee._

_Blessed art thou among women,_

_and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,_

_for thou hast borne Christ the Saviour,_

_the Deliverer of our souls._

Mello had never known his mother, but if he had to give her a face, it would be a Madonna's. She would have been graceful, and loving, and glowing, he just knew it. He just felt it. She would have had opened arms and a peaceful babe tucked sweetly into them. Mello just felt it. He could just feel her.

She must have been everything he's not, after all, because how else could Mello justify being just how he is.

_Mary, _he would have called her. _Full of grace. _She must have been. He just felt it down to his bones.

_Mary full of grace, _

_the Lord is with thee._

_Blessed art thou among women,_

_and blessed is the fruit of thy womb_

_,for thou hast borne Christ the Saviour,_

_the Deliverer of our souls._

-

Mello fingers the red rosary beads carefully, twining them in his fingers. They hold him like no one else could. They hold him like a mother's hands. And so he fingers them carefully, in his quiet moments, or in the loud shatters of gunshots, and so he believes in little other than what he has in his hands. He's got the whole world, in his hands, the whole world in his hands, and so he believes in little else, and has little memories anyways.

-

"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost:

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

Amen."

Because of course, she must have been Catholic. Surely, she must have meditated with this rosary, and prayed with this rosary. Surely, she was devoted, which made her a devoted mother, which made her a Mary, and _Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed thou art among women-_

Would memorization bring him home to her? Mello could be devoted, too, because as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen, and he cradles the beads carefully, because there is little else for him in a world without end, since it's still a world without his Mary, still a world without end, Glory be to the Father, Amen.

-

"_My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"_

"_Father, into your hands, I commit my spirit!"_

_-_

"Amen."

--


	2. Penitence

Grown men don't visit churches. Grown men don't trudge up to confessionals and spew out their wrongdoings, un-doings, or the flat-out sins they've chalked up over the course of the week to a complete, faceless stranger.

But Mello knows all about faceless strangers, and in turn, he knows all about sin.

And so, here he is, slouched against the faded red plush of a pew somewhere towards the middle of an essentially empty church, with a frown dominating the corners of his mouth and the red beads of his rosary dominating his fingers.

"Hello, Father," he says, grimacing, slumping into the booth. He props his clunky boot against the wall, makes himself at home. He's been here plenty of times before, after all, 'cause they all find their way home eventually.

"Hello, son." It's a man behind the latticework this time. A smiling man, a loving man, a man of God, and Mello can hear his smile in the way he speaks, and he can almost feel that sort of fatherly love exuded by the man's disembodied voice, tagged to the shadow on the other side of the screen. "And how long has it been since your last confession, son?"

To be identified with as 'son' still gave Mello an uncomfortable air.

He shifts his weight, heaves a bit of a sigh, and settles his back against the booth.

"Seven days, Father."

The shadow nods. Mello glances about the small, dark, not-even-big-enough-to-be-technically-called a room. The booth always feels smallest when Mello prepares himself with whatever it is he has to come clean with.

"And what do you have to confess, my son?"

It's a lucky thing he can never see the face of the priest -

"I fucked a girl, father," - when he spills out this weeks dirty laundry the way rotten milk spills in rancid clumps, and -

The Father's voice is strained. "Oh, son, well, say for me, three Hail Mary's, and -"

"And I paid her for it, Father."

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death._

The man behind the metal grid clears his throat. His patriarchal air is flustered. Mello can feel it, and it tugs upward at the corners of his mouth.

"W-well," the man stutters as he tries to regain himself. Mello lets his boot drop to the kneeler with a thud. He senses a cringe in the broken up shadow as he does so. Another sneering smile.

Is that what it is with him? Does he do these horrible things for the thrill of telling someone about it, and watching them squirm for him? Is it some sort of complex that allows him to thrive, to feed on the discomfort of the men of God that he spins his yarns to? Is that what sends him to the streets each day of the working week? He's a lost cause anyways, but its all he's got, and hell, Mello grins, it passes the time on Sunday's.

"Well, son, just, erm, say for me, say, those three Hail Mary's, and the Lords Prayer-"

"Oh, yeah, and Father?"

There's that distorted little smile again. Mello tries for a moment to imagine what the priests face looks like. He sets his mind for a moment at what it would look like with the brows knitted together and the mouth set in a disgusted grimace. And he can't help the corners of his mouth, and the way they tilt up at the thought.

A resigned sigh. "Yes…" - there's a bad taste in the poor man's mouth, Mello can almost taste it himself - "My... son?

He props his elbows against his knees and leans forward, with his lips close to the iron lattice that separates himself from the man of God. Always something that separates, Mello grins. He whispers:

"I did it over…"

A grimace from the other side.

"And over…"

A shudder.

"And over again, Father."

There is the brief sound of fabric brushing other fabrics, then a click and a flood of filtered light as a door is unlatched -

"I'll pray for you, son."

- and then another click, followed by an empty darkness, as the door is set shut again.

Mello leans his back against the seat and remains there for a moment before shuffling his own feet to the rustle of black leather to stand and push back the curtain.

"See you next Sunday, Father."

-

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death._

--


End file.
